


Found

by robbobobobob



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Prejudice, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, cyril-centric, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26463232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robbobobobob/pseuds/robbobobobob
Summary: Throughout the years, Cyril gains a family. Five times he didn't realise it, and the one time he finally did.Rated for minor language and some canon-typical themes surrounding war, religion, and trauma.
Relationships: Cyril & Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Cyril & Claude von Riegan, Cyril & Lysithea von Ordelia, Cyril & Mercedes von Martritz, Cyril & Seteth (Fire Emblem), Cyril & Shamir Nevrand, Cyril/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Cyril/Lysithea von Ordelia
Comments: 15
Kudos: 62





	1. Big Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude helps Cyril take care of some injuries.

Just before dawn broke that morning, Cyril arrived at the archery grounds in the forest just outside of Garreg Mach. The various dummies used for target practice had fallen around the clearing instead of lined up neatly in a row, remnants from the previous day’s training and the irresponsible students and knights who didn’t bother to fix them after they had finished. Cyril grumbled. He was usually the first one that arrived to train, so it was always him fixing the dummies for everyone else. If he didn’t fix the targets now, someone might get caught in the crossfire if they had to fix it later on.

With a sigh, Cyril dropped his equipment and went to fix the dummies. He briefly considered teaching everyone a lesson and _not_ doing it, but Shamir had drilled the “rules of responsible and safe training” into his head too much for him to go against that. 

When he was halfway through aligning the targets, Cyril heard the crunch of leaves behind. He briefly turned around and saw the Golden Deer house leader walking towards him, a bow in one hand.

“Good morning, Cyril,” Claude said, smiling. Cyril grunted in acknowledgement before going back to his work.

Claude was one of the few people who showed up at the archery grounds this early in the morning. Sometimes Petra would be around too if she couldn’t train in the afternoon. Once, Sylvain crawled out of the bushes just as Cyril and Claude arrived, a girl with dark hair fleeing to town. Cyril shot him a dirty look, but Claude just gave the redhead a smirk and a pat on the back.

Cyril appreciated Claude’s company in the mornings. The Golden Deer’s house leader would always greet him, but didn’t say much beyond that. Usually, the two just stayed silent as they aimed for the target dummies. Claude wasn’t as talkative in the mornings. Cyril chalked it up to him still working up the energy to be his usual chummy self for the rest of day. For a few hours, the thunk of the arrows hitting their and the sound of the forest and its inhabitants waking up would be the only thing either one would hear.

When the monastery bell tolled as the sun was already high in the sky, Cyril put down his equipment and wiped the sweat on his brow. It had been a good training session. For the most part, he’d managed to hit the dummies when he used straight shots. His curved shots, however, still left much to be desired, most of the arrows used in that technique scattered on the ground.

He snuck a quick look at Claude’s own targets. Multiple arrows stuck out from the centre. Cyril trains with Claude (well, just in his vicinity) almost every morning, but he still gets amazed at the older boy’s skill.

Shaking his head, Cyril goes to retrieve his arrows. One of them had managed to lodge itself well into the dummy that Cyril had to grip and pull with so much force that he fell to the ground. At least the arrow had gotten out. But as Cyril went to push himself off the ground, he fell back again.

“ _Augh_ ,” he exclaimed. Suddenly, the sound of whizzing arrows beside him paused.

“Cyril?” Claude asked, taking a few steps towards the smaller boy. “You okay?”

Cyril grit his teeth and checked out his hands. They were red and splotchy and _raw_. Apparently more than a few of his blisters had popped and his palms felt like they were on fire. Cyril still had a full day’s worth of chores. He did not need this right now.

“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth, hoping Claude wouldn’t notice him wince as he tried to open and close his hands to get used to the pain.

No luck. Claude leaned down next to Cyril and drew a sharp breath. “Ouch,” he said. “That looks really bad. You won’t really be able to use your hands for the rest of the day.”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Cyril insisted and moved to get up, using his legs for some momentum.

“Wait,” Claude started to say, but Cyril was already up and had gathered his things, using his wrists and fingers to tuck his bow and quiver of arrows in his arms.

“Bye Claude,” Cyril said hurriedly. He didn’t want to be stopped because couldn’t _not work_. Just the idea of not being able to do his duties set his stomach tumbling.

“Cyril, will you stop?!” Claude said, grabbing a hold of Cyril’s shoulder. The younger boy just shrugged it off and picked up the pace. He knew he was fast. He may have been shorter, but he knew he could outrun Claude.

“Cyril!” Claude called again, but Cyril ignored him. He could already see the edge of the forest. He heard Claude call him one more time and before he knew it, he was getting a face-full of dirt.

Claude had _tackled_ him to the ground.

“Claude, what are you doing?!” Cyril said, turning on his side and proceeded to kick Claude away from the older boy’s grip around his waist. Claude scrambled away from Cyril and squatted next to him.

“You wouldn’t stop!” 

“I have work to do!”

“You won’t be able to do anything with those hands,” Claude said, shaking his head. “I bet you weren’t even planning on visiting the infirmary.”

“So you thought the only way to help me was to _tackle_ me?!”

“I got you to stop, didn’t I?” Claude shrugged and gave Cyril a small smile. Cyril glared daggers at him. “Come on, let me help you.”

“…Fine,” Cyril muttered. He sat up, crossed his legs, and held up his hands.

Claude’s smile widened and his rummaged through his coat’s inner pockets. He pulled out a vial of vulnerary and applied a few drops on Cyril’s palms. Instantly, the smaller boy felt some cool relief on his burning hands. After, Claude placed it back into his coat and pulled out a small pot.

The coat was huge, Cyril mused. He wondered how many things Claude had in there.

“What’s that?” Cyril asked as Claude unscrewed the pot’s lid. Inside was a waxy green salve that Claude was now applying on Cyril’s palms. It had a strong but pleasant smell. It was familiar, somehow.

“It’s a secret potion,” Claude said seriously, but punctuated the sentence with a wink. Cyril stared at him. “Kidding. It’s a salve I made to help with burns and blisters and the like. Family recipe.”

“ _You_ made it?” 

Claude laughed, “I don’t just make poisons, you know.”

Cyril stayed silent, but the corners of his lips started to twitch. He’s seen Claude’s room and the myriad of dangerous toxins he keeps in a box.

“Although… I don’t think I’ve ever gotten blisters this bad,” Claude said. He finished up with the salve and returned it to his coat. Then, he pulled out a roll of cloth bandages and cut a length he’d need to wrap Cyril’s hands. “You sure work hard, you know.”

“Yeah,” Cyril muttered. “I have to. It’s my job.”

“Yeah, I know,” Claude responded, wrapping the bandages slowly to make sure they were neat around Cyril’s hands. “But I mean, about the archery. You train every morning before everyone gets up, and don’t you train with Shamir in the evenings too?”

“Just every other day,” Cyril answered. “And only when she’s not on a mission.”

“Did she tell you to train every morning, too?”

“No, but _I_ want to. It was hard enough to get _anyone_ to train me…” Cyril trailed off.

Claude finished wrapping and securing Cyril’s bandages. He leaned back and sat down on the ground next to the smaller boy. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, well,” Cyril opened and closed his palms to test out how the bandages feel. “It took me a long time to convince anyone to mentor me. I don’t like fighting, but I knew I needed to learn, in case, ya know, Lady Rhea needed me to be by her side.” Claude nodded slowly, but said nothing.

“I asked Lady Rhea, but she told me not to bother, ‘cause I was safe in the monastery. So I asked the Knights, but they were either too busy or they didn’t trust me with a weapon.” Cyril scowled. “Because I was an Almyran, one of them yelled at me, so I would stop asking them.”

Claude pursed his lips at that and then matched Cyril’s scowl with one of his own.

“But I already knew how to fire an arrow from being in the Almyran army, so I started to practice on my own,” Cyril continued. “That’s when Shamir saw me shooting. She said my technique was all wrong and eventually she just started teaching me regularly.” Claude let out a huge laugh at that. “It was real hard to get to this point, so I don’t want to waste it, ya know.”

“Yeah,” Claude hummed. “I get it. Well, between you and me, I think the Knights really missed out when they turned you down.”

“What?” Cyril’s brow furrowed.

“You’re talented, Cyril,” Claude gave him a toothy grin. “I’ve been watching you train and you’re a quick study. Not to mention, you’re crazy fast. I bet you could fire two arrows before someone else could even nock their first.”

Cyril stared at Claude. That was a scary amount of compliments. Cyril won't say he didn't like it, though.

Claude laughed and moved to stand up. “I’m just saying, they missed out on a good student.”

He offered the crook of his elbow to help Cyril stand up, which the younger boy hesitantly took, not wanting to strain his hands too much.

“Oh, also,” Claude continued once they were both on their feet. “If you ever want more training or even just some pointers, I’d be happy to help out.”

“Are you serious?” Cyril replied incredulously.

“Uh, yeah,” Claude said, chuckling, but sounding just a tiny bit nervous. “If you want me to, I mean. I promise not to go against anything Shamir teaches you though. I don't want to upset your teacher, after all."

“No, I mean, yeah,” Cyril said quickly, his brain not quite processing the fact that a _second_ person wants to mentor him when before he couldn't even get one. “I’d like that, Claude.”

Claude smiled, but abruptly, it turned into a frown. Cyril fidgeted. Was he going to take it back?

“On one condition: you have to take better care of yourself. You can’t do anything if you’re injured all the time.” 

Cyril huffed at that. “You’re not my father.” Claude gave a big belly laugh at that.

“I’d sure hope not,” Claude said. “Maybe ‘big bro’ would be more appropriate.”

Cyril rolled his eyes. The Golden Deer house leader laughed and started walking back to the monastery, stretching his arms behind him. “Come on, let’s go get breakfast.”

Cyril paused behind him. “Claude, where’s your bow? Did you leave it at the archery grounds?”

“Oh, yeah, shit.”

\- - -

A few days later, the Professor approached Cyril and asked if he would like to join their class for a few training sessions. Cyril took to it quickly and the Professor was pleased. A few weeks after that, the Professor insisted on making Cyril’s status in their class a permanent placement.


	2. Big Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercie and Cyril have a chat at the cathedral.

Cyril didn’t often find himself in the Garreg Mach cathedral. When he was there, he was usually just in and out. He come to polish the candle holders, the windows, and the tiles and then left without a word. The only trace of his being there would be the incredible sheen left in his wake.

Today, however, was different. Captain Jeralt had just died, and the strongest person Cyril has ever met was left broken. 

All of their students visited them at one point or another, but would hardly get a response. They wouldn’t leave their room and the only noise that would cross the heavy doors to their room would be the sound of quiet sobs. No one knew what to do, seeing the Professor’s heart get absolutely destroyed like that.

Cyril felt lost too, but in different ways. He understood what everyone was feeling, not knowing how to help the person that has helped all of them. But beyond that, the loss of your parents was something he was incredibly familiar with.

Cyril tried not to think about his home in a military village near the border, and the now-blurry memory of his parents’ faces who left to fight one day and never returned. He tried to forget the moment the bandits arrived at the village and burned everything to the ground. He tried to push aside the memory of him being dragged by one of the soldiers to another base camp, at how he had to prove he could be useful in the war, at how he was stolen and brought to Fodlan, at—

He had to stop before he spiralled.

Cyril shook his head. All of that only showed him how he couldn’t actually help the professor when he himself never actually address his own loss in a healthy way.

In Almyran culture, the way to process death was to celebrate the dead’s life. He could hardly remember his parents at this point, and he didn’t exactly know Jeralt aside from the occasional shared meals with the Professor or the head pats given when they would pass each other in the halls. The Almyran way of processing just didn’t feel right for this.

So that morning, as he received his daily instructions from Lady Rhea, he also asked her what prayers were said for the dead. She brightened a little, seeing his sudden interest in the Church’s teachings, but did not pry. She just took some time to teach him a simple prayer and then gave him a note with the words written on it. Cyril froze at the note, but took it anyway, grateful at least that he had a good memory.

That’s how he found himself in the cathedral reciting words he hoped would reach the goddess, and Jeralt, and maybe, his parents.

“…When the cold washes my body, when the bird and wolf howl at the moon…” Cyril whispered, solemn. But then he paused. Something about that didn’t feel right.

“Hello, Cyril,” he heard a soft voice next to him. Mercie was next to him at the side of the cathedral, along with a small redheaded girl whose eyes were closed and whose hands were clasped together. 

“Oh, heya Mercie,” he said quietly. 

“It’s rare to see you here,” Mercie replied softly, smiling. 

“Yeah,” Cyril nodded. “I just… wanted to pray for Jeralt. Wish him peace, and the Professor too. And all that….” He suddenly felt very shy. He didn’t really know what he was doing. He’s glad that he chose to stay at the side instead of going up to the centre of the cathedral.

“That’s very sweet of you,” Mercie said. “I’m sure that Jeralt appreciates that you’re thinking of him.”

Cyril flushed and muttered a small thanks.

“But,” Mercie continued. “If you don’t mind me asking, is there anything else that’s troubling you? It’s just that… your face looked particularly… distraught.”

Cyril sucked in a breath. Was he that transparent? Was he not keeping it together as well as he thought?

“It’s nothing painfully obvious,” Mercie continued gently, as if she could read his thoughts. “I was just concerned, and I wanted to know if I could help you. But only if you want to share, of course.”

Cyril let a breath out slowly. It’s not something he particularly wanted to share. It was too much, and this day wasn’t about him. But there was just something in Mercie’s soft voice, and the gentle way she was looking at him, that made him believe she really just wanted to know if she could help him.

“It’s…” Cyril said hesitantly before continuing. “It’s my parents. They also died in combat. I thought, while I’m praying for Jeralt, I could pray for them too….” Mercie nodded at him, encouraging him to go on. “Lady Rhea taught me this mourning scripture but… I’m not sure I’m even saying it right… or if the goddess even takes prayer from Almyrans… much less _for_ them…”

Mercie nodded and looked at the altar up front thoughtfully before speaking.

“The goddess watches over all of Fodlan and protects it. But I do not believe she is indiscriminate in her guidance. I believe the goddess discerns who and what are good, and listens to that, not just where you were born.” Mercie turned to Cyril and gave him a smile. “I believe that the goddess sees _you_ , Cyril, and sees that you’re so good, she won’t be able to _not_ listen to you.”

A sob gets caught in Cyril’s throat. He never knew he needed to hear those words until Mercie’s said it.

“And… if the goddess can’t watch over your parents, I’m sure she would be happy to pass on your prayers to whoever is watching over Almyra. Yes, I believe that.”

Cyril took a deep breath, feeling pricks of tears behind his eyes and a warmth spread over his body. He closed his eyes for a second before looking up and giving Mercie a smile.

“Thanks, Mercie,” he says, looking up at the statue of the goddess at the altar. Suddenly, she looked a little less intimidating than before.

“And about the scriptures,” Mercie continued. “There’s a set way of saying them, but, really, you can say whatever you want to the goddess. The scriptures are just there to guide you in case words fail. So I believe there’s really no wrong way of saying them.”

Cyril smiles appreciatively at her. “I like the sound of that. But to be honest, Mercie, I’m not so good at words, so I think I’d like to have some of that guidance.”

Mercie gives a small laugh at that and proceeds to teach him.

“When the cold rain washes the body,” Mercie starts.

“When the cold rain washes the body,” Cyril repeats.

“when the bird and wolf announce the dawn…”

“when the bird and wolf announce the dawn…”

“Receive them into your blue blood. Receive them into a twinkling star.”

Receive them into your blue blood. Receive them into a twinkling star.”

“You’ve got it,” Mercie smiles.

“Thank you, Mercie,” Cyril replies. Suddenly, Mercie shifts something in her arms and for the first time Cyril notices she’s carrying a basket with a cloth over it.

“What is that?” He asks, peering into the contents.

“Oh, they’re sweets! Annie and I made some to give to the Professor. Dedue and Ashe try to keep them fed everyday, but we thought maybe some sweet would be a nice change of pace.”

“Yeah! Sweets can help anyone feel better, and Mercie’s the best at making them!” The redheaded girl suddenly interjected. “Heya, I’m Annette! Hm, although… if you call Mercie ‘Mercie’ then you should probably call me ‘Annie,’ huh?”

Cyril couldn’t help but be surprised at the sudden burst of energy. Just a few moments ago she was just praying solemnly.

“Annie…” Cyril tested out. Both Mercie and Annie brightened at that. Cyril smiled, amused at how bright and sunny the pair were. “I’m Cyril.”

“Nice to meet you, Cyril! Would you like a pastry?” Annie pushed her own basket of treats towards him.

“Oh, thank you,” Cyril paused. “But I think you’re better off giving it to the mourners.”

“Nonsense, there’s enough for everyone who needs it!” Annie said.

“Besides, Cyril, you’re mourning too,” Mercie added softly.

Cyril looked between the both of them and nodded.

“I highly recommend the peach tart,” Annie whispered almost conspiratorially. “They’re the best but there’s only a limited amount so you’d better hurry.”

Cyril gave a small laugh and reached for the peach tart as Mercie looked at him fondly.

“If you want any more, I’ll be happy to cook for you any time, Cyril,” Mercie said. “I may need help with the ingredients, but just say the word and I’ll be happy to keep you full with sweets!”

“Okay,” Cyril replied, and there it was again, the warmth in his body and the pricks behind his eyes. He didn’t know exactly why he was reacting this way, but it was happening.

At that moment, the cathedral bells chimed and Annie and Mercie turned to each other.

“We should probably go,” Mercie said.

“It was nice meeting you, Cyril!” Annie said, waving at him.

The two turned around to leave the cathedral.

Cyril looked at the two of them and then back at the altar up front. He walked towards it, determined this time to be able to recite the scripture with confidence.

\- - -

Moments later, the Professor appeared out of nowhere and joined him. They looked curiously at the tart still in his hands (he wasn’t going to eat it in the cathedral because no one was going to clean up that mess aside from him). After a short explanation, together they headed out to look for Mercie and Annie and their enticing pile of sweets.


	3. Parent I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shamir makes sure Cyril is being cared for (Catherine helps).

The evacuation was chaos. Houses were still burning, the sky was red and smokey, and everyone was panicking. Horses were running around, scared, with their owner frantically trying to chase them down. Families were running around with sacks full of the only things that could be salvaged from the wreckage, the final remnants of their homes. Children were crying, confused at the mess around them. They could not comprehend the fact that their safe space was attacked by an army raised by a student-turned-emperor, a war has been declared within the past ten minutes, and that a _freaking dragon_ has suddenly shown up in the sky above them.

Cyril could relate to them. Even if he was older, even if he had been in war before, and even if he was even on the front lines of this one, he still could not comprehend the idea that Garreg Mach was burning to the ground. That his _home_ was gone.

He had just woken up when he heard the monks talking about him. The last thing he remembered was collapsing at the entrance hall of the monastery when he came in in search of a healer. He had just come from narrowly finishing off a demonic beast, his dominant arm broken from the fight. Now, he was on a cot along with the other injured, and some of those from the Church of Seiros were discussing evacuation plans.

They were talking about sending him away.

“I can’t believe we’re stuck with the heathen child,” one monk sneered, not bothering to keep his voice low even with Cyril not even a metre away. 

“They cannot possibly think we’ll take him with us around Fodlan,” the monk’s companion shook her head at him. “We can barely take care of our own, why do we have to think about taming a brute?”

Cyril’s heart leapt to his throat. He was used to this. People around the monastery said vile things like this all the time. But this time was different. This time, Garreg Mach was burning to the ground, he had no idea if his classmates were still alive, and he was lying helpless with a broken arm, unable to help Lady Rhea and everyone else who were working to keep the monastery safe. To keep his _home_ safe. Hearing people talking about him as if he didn’t belong was suddenly harder to bear.

“Come on, while he’s unconscious, let’s sneak him onto the carriage bound for the Goneril territory. I’m sure they’ll have some use for him there.”

Cyril froze up, unable to do anything as he was about to get sent back to the last place he wanted to be. He knew he should say something. He knew he should protest. Cyril wanted to scream, but the words got stuck in his throat.

It turns out, he didn’t have to say anything.

“Don’t take another step towards Cyril or I’ll shoot you where you stand,” Shamir’s steely voice interjected. She had appeared in-between the two monks, her face impassive as usual and her voice as casual as ever. But Cyril noticed the way her jaw clenched ever so slightly and clipped tone of her voice, and he knew she was fuming.

“A-archer!” The monk stuttered, clearly recognising Shamir.

The monk’s companion tried to speak, but it came out incoherent.

“W-we were just wondering how to ease the church’s troubles—” The monk continued.

“Ease its troubles? By sending away my best student?” Shamir countered. She was frowning now. The monks both paled at the last word.

“We d-didn’t k-know—”

“Enough. He comes with me,” Shamir says with finality, glaring daggers at the monks. “Leave.”

The pair scurried away without saying another word.

Shamir clicked her tongue disapprovingly at the two retreating forms. Cyril struggled to push himself up, but he wanted to sit up and meet her eyes.

“Shamir!” Cyril choked out, unable to contain the emotion in his voice. 

Shamir turned back to his voice and startled at the sight of him sitting up and talking to her. Frowning, she made her way next to him.

“You’re awake,” she said.

“Shamir,” Cyril sobbed. “I’m not going to go to Goneril?”

“Of course not,” she said simply.

“You’re not going to send me away?”

Shamir’s frowned deepened at that.

“Listen, Cyril. Rhea’s missing.” 

Cyril blanched at that. Before he could cry out, though, Shamir held up a hand, which signalled to Cyril to let her keep talking.

“We’re going to look for her. The entirety of the Knights of Seiros. We’ll bring her back.”

Cyril nodded. He wiped his eyes and looked up at Shamir.

“It’s going to be rough. Dangerous. You might not be ready for it…” Shamir paused and looked over Cyril’s tear-stained face before continuing. “But I’m not going to send you away.”

Cyril felt the tears pool up in his eyes again, but held them back. He wanted to show Shamir he wouldn’t be like this the entire time. That she would never have to question his place with the group. He was about to tell her exactly that but she motioned that she still had more to say.

“On one condition. You have to follow exactly what I say,” She said. “From now on, I’m responsible for you, got it?”

Cyril nodded again. Shamir had just promised that she would take care of him. That he would be by her side. He was going to make sure that he wasn’t going to lose that. Not again.

\- - -

For the next five years, Cyril worked hard to keep his place with the rest of the Knights.

Shamir helped him establish a routine. She knew he liked to feel like he was contributing, so she made sure he would act like any other Knight of Seiros and did the work to keep everyone together.

She turned morning archery practice into game hunting for their next meal along with Alois. The rest of the day was spent routing bandits with Catherine or helping Seteth organise evacuations, mostly to help civilians, sometimes to collect rewards that would fuel the next stage of their search for Rhea. Evenings were spent on cooking practice with Flayn.

Through it all, Shamir kept her promise, keeping one eye out for him the entire time. She would correct his techniques to improve his skills and made sure he wasn’t hurting himself. She’d keep a protective arm around his shoulder whenever random civillians contorted their face violently after they looked too closely at his amber eyes and copper skin. She’d made sure there was always a space for him at mealtimes.

For the most part, Cyril still felt out of place. He still didn’t feel like he was a seamless part of the group. Not like when he was at Garreg Mach, where people like the Professor, Claude, and Mercie always regarded him warmly. But thanks to her, it wasn’t quite so bad.

At least now, he could sit around the campfire without her and not have to worry about being sent away.

Shamir went with Hanneman and Manuela to the nearby town to collect supplies for the night, leaving the rest of the Knights at the base camp taking a break.

Cyril found himself trying to start a campfire with Catherine.

The two of them didn’t talk much, with most of the time they spent together being too busy locked in combat to say anything more than an occasional quip or check-in for any injuries. 

Luckily for him, there was something that needed his attention, so Cyril focused on getting the campfire going instead.

Much less lucky for him, he and Catherine had gotten really good at working together and building campfires, that that distraction didn’t last too long and now they were about the be forced to converse.

“I…” Cyril started, looking around for something to do. “I'm gonna get some more kindling for the fire.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, yeah, I guess. But.. it wouldn’t kill you to sit down every once in a while, Cyril.”

“No, I should do it,” Cyril shook his head. “In case we need more of it.”

He was about to set out when Alois arrived, presenting his large shield and the mess of dry twigs and leaves settled on top of it. To be used for kindling, he had said, before dropping a pile next to the boy’s feet and skipping off to the other groups and their campfires.

Cyril and Catherine stared at the kindling for a beat before Cyril forced himself to sit down.

Catherine let out a hearty laugh at that.

“Sorry, sorry,” Catherine said after a while, wiping the mirth at the corner of her eyes. “The timing was just too perfect.”

“I guess,” Cyril muttered. Catherine shook her head, still smiling.

“Has anyone ever told you that you work too hard, Cyril?” Catherine asked. Cyril looked at her indignantly.

“It’s my job. I’ve got to keep work—”

“Working to make sure that we find Lady Rhea,” Catherine finished for him. Cyril shot her a confused look, which Catherine just shrugged to. “Shamir’s told me all about your devotion to Lady Rhea and the insane work ethic you have to match that.”

“Oh?” Cyril asked.

“Yep,” Catherine said. “I’ve noticed it too, back when we were in Garreg Mach. You always scrubbed the floor with a vengeance.”

“What makes ya say that?”

“Yeah, it was like you wanted to prove you could clean better than everybody else.”

“Well, yeah, I guess…” Cyril trailed off. Catherine leaned forward and regarded the boy curiously.

“And why’s that?” She asked.

Cyril looked to the slowly darkening sky, trying to remember the days when the hardest thing he had to do everyday was avoid the vile stares of those that hated him as he worked. Was that harder than going to combat everyday, albeit with people he trusted? Cyril wasn’t sure.

“I didn’t want anyone to question what I was doing in the monastery,” Cyril replied, shrugging. “I wanted to make sure my good work was undeniable, ya know.”

Catherine softened. He was too young to have that weary look in his face.

“Cyril,” She said. He nodded slightly to indicate he was listening, but still kept his eyes up. “Cyril, look at me.”

He turned and met Catherine in the eyes.

“Even if you were the most horrible worker in the world,” Cather said, keeping her voice soft and her face sincere. She wanted to make sure he knew she meant what she was saying. “There’s no way we’d ever let anyone take you away.”

Cyril stared at Catherine in awe.

“In fact,” Catherine said, thoughtfully. “Shamir might kill anyone who would even try. She told me one night that you—”

“What did I tell you?” Shamir’s voice suddenly interjected. She was holding a sack full of supplies as Hanneman and Manuela trailed behind her, bickering loudly. She calmly set down the supplies on the ground, but her glare was full of venom. “Are you going to continue revealing the things that have been said to you _in confidence?_ ”

An ordinary person might have interpreted this as a threat, and would have run away from it before they lost any of their limbs. That’s what Cyril would have done, anyway. However, Catherine was far from ordinary. She simply smiled at her partner.

“Hey, Cyril should know that he’s important to you,” Catherine continued, blissfully ignoring how Shamir narrowed her eyes at her. “Which means that you’re important to me, too.”

Catherine stood up and stretched her legs. “I’d like to talk more Cyril, but I think my partner here’s seconds away from strangling me. Let me know if Shamir’s done monopolising you so _we_ can have a chance to bond.” 

With that, Catherine gave Shamir a quick peck on the cheek and a wink before retreating quickly from the scene. She may have been extraordinary, but she didn’t have a death wish.

Shamir stared after her partner, a little pink in the face, before turning to Cyril. He laughed awkwardly at her stare, but couldn’t help the comforting feeling wrapping around his entire body.

“That was…” Shamir started. “A little sappy for my taste.”

Cyril’s face fell slightly. Shamir noticed and quickly continued her statement.

“But not untrue. You have nothing left to prove Cyril, not to any of us. Your place is _here_.”

There it was. The words Cyril had waited his whole life to hear.


	4. Parent II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyril has a lot of trauma he has to work through. Byleth is there to help.

“Cyril.”

Cyril paused mid-swing. He was working on his axe technique in the training grounds, repeating the motions of the different swing types Alois recently showed him. He’d wanted to get familiar enough with the technique that he could bring it to battle with him.

He turned towards the voice and saw the Professor standing just a few steps away from him, their hands crossed over their chest.

“Hi Professor,” Cyril said before resuming his exercises. His arms were beginning to get sore, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through it.

“It’s getting dark,” Byleth said.

“Oh. Guess it is,” Cyril replied but didn’t stop. The sleeves he had bunched up earlier had fallen past his elbows. Sweat was dripping down his face, his back, everywhere. He could feel himself getting a little parched, but he wasn’t going to admit that. Cyril didn’t want to stop pushing himself yet.

“Cyril,” Byleth said again. He ignored them. “How long have you been here?”

“Just a few hours,” Cyril huffed. “Seteth and Alois were showing me new lance and axe techniques.”

“And before that?”

“Flying practice,” Cyril said between swings. Talking was hard when just regulating his breathing was already taking up most of his energy.

“And you still keep up with your dawn archery routine, right?”

Cyril grunted in affirmation.

“And you still have your daily chores after that?” Another grunt.

Byleth groaned in exasperation. They walked around to face Cyril and stopped directly in the path of his swing. The younger boy yelped and jumped back at the last second, narrowly avoiding hitting the Professor in the face. Not that the Professor wouldn’t have been able to to dodge the attack.

“Prof—” Cyril started.

“Why are you doing all this?” Byleth said with a frown on their face. Cyril still wasn’t used to seeing the Professor display much emotion, so seeing such a negative one made him nervous enough to set down his axe on the ground.

“I dedicate most of my morning to chores and helping out around the monastery. I really want to get in as much training as I can in the afternoons.”

“That’s not the schedule I assigned you, though. You practice archery everyday, but axe and lance training alternates. Flying is every two days.”

“Yeah, but I’m preparing to take the certification for the Wyvern Lord class,” Cyril said.

“I know, _I_ set that goal.”

“No, now. I mean this month” Cyril said. Byleth’s frown deepened.

“You’re not set to take it for another three months,” they replied. “I timed it.”

“Yeah, but I heard you talking,” Cyril looked down, not meeting the Professor in the eyes. “You said you needed more powerful wyvern riders. That the ones Hilda and I ride are too small and afraid to really charge at battalions, unlike the ones Seteth and the other Wyvern Lords use.”

Byleth paused, examining Cyril’s face. The emotion on his face was sheepish, but his eyes were filled with determination.

“Yes,” they said slowly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s up to you to pick up at the slack.”

A flash of anger passed Cyril’s face and he finally looked up to face Byleth.

“Yes it is!” He exclaimed. “I have to do my part and get stronger so we can defeat the Empire and save Lady Rhea!”

Ah, there it was, Byleth thought.

“It’s been years,” Cyril continued, quieter. “We finally found you and now we know where she is but we still haven’t rescued her.”

“Cyril…”

“What if,” Cyril whimpeered. “What if she thinks we’ve abandoned her?”

No, _there_ it was.

“Cyril,” Byleth said. “Let’s get some food and then some tea.”

Cyril stared at his Professor and the abrupt suggestion. “Did you… I just… I have to get stronger.”

“You do,” Byleth said, hardening their stare to meet Cyril in the eyes. “But I am in charge of picking up the slack in this army and I know that what will really make you stronger right now is getting some food and tea in you.”

Cyril continued his stare, defiant. The Professor held his stare.

But then Cyril’s stomach let out a loud growl and Byleth’s face formed a small smile.

“Fine,” Cyril said, breaking their gaze.

\- - -

Cyril and the Professor ended up sitting on the steps facing the fishing pond. They brought their food there and ate in silence, both of them scarfing down their meals in seconds. The now-empty plates lay beside them on the floor as they both held teacups, waiting for them to cool. If Lorenz saw them right now, he would throw a massive fit, saying something about proper teatime etiquette requiring them to actually _have a table_.

But it’s not like that would do anything. Cyril and Byleth were both born outside of the realm of common Fodlan conventions and so held little interest in constraining themselves to noble etiquette. Not to mention, the Professor was the leader of their entire army and it would be hard to stop her from doing whatever she wanted when it was ultimately harmless. And so they stayed.

The sun had almost completely set by this point, casting a beautiful orange glow all over the sky that reflected onto the calm waters of the pond in front of them. The wind was starting to pick up as the sky got darker and darker. Cyril clutched the warm drink in his hand, appreciating the chill of the night and the heat of the drink that balanced everything out.

He tried to focus on the view in front of him, but it was difficult to do so when Byleth was staring so intently at him.

“Professor…” Cyril complained, barely stopping himself from whining the name. The staring was getting tiring. “Just tell me what ya need to tell me.”

Byleth lifted their teacup to their lips and sipped. “Why do you think she’ll feel abandoned?”

Cyril nearly dropped his teacup. Straightforward as always, he thought.

“Aw, ya don’t you just say thing like that,” Cyril muttered, looking away from the Professor and into the pond in front of him.

“Okay, let me start with something easier. Training more doesn’t mean you’re automatically going to get better, or be prepared for your exam.”

“How does that make sense?” Cyril frowned. “If I train, then I get better, then I can ride the bigger, tougher wyverns.”

Byleth looked at Cyril for a second before swiping his teacup from his fingers.

“Hey!”

“Your reflexes are slower,” Byleth said before returning the younger boy’s tea back to him. “In the training grounds, your swings lacked power and your stance was shaky. Worst of all, you didn’t even notice. You thought you were doing fine, but you’re _tired_ , Cyril.”

Cyril stayed quiet. He bowed his head to look at his hands cradling the teacup he had just gotten back. 

“There’s a reason I spaced your training out,” the Professor continued. “If you train too much you’re just going to end up tired and careless.” Byleth paused. Their face went soft as they said in a low voice. “Rhea won’t get saved if you keep hurting yourself like this.”

The pair sat in silence, watching the last remnants of the sun slowly sink over the horizon. Nighttime came and brought just enough to darkness to partially obscure Cyril’s face, making him comfortable enough to start speaking.

“When you leave someone alone, it’s like you’re abandoning them,” Cyril said, breaking the silence.

“Is that what you think?” Byleth asked, turning to look at the younger boy.

“That’s what happens. People leave and then you’re alone,” Cyril responded. Images flashed in his mind. The feeling of two pairs of arms donned in armour wrapping around his small frame before heading out the door forever. The relatives who begrudgingly took him in, fleeing when the bandits came. The possibility of being left to the Gonerils when his home was getting destroyed five years ago. The thoughts didn’t cripple him the way they did before, but they did make him sad.

“Cyril,” Byleth started. He turned to meet the Professor’s eyes. “Just because you’re not together, doesn’t mean you’re not still _with_ each other. The times you’ve spend with everyone, the conversations you’ve had, the support you’ve built? Those stay with you, forever.”

Cyril searched the Professor’s face, trying to find deceit, or doubt, or anything that will invalidate what they’re saying. But all he could find was sincerity.

“I mean, what else could explain a grand reunion five years in the making?” Byleth smiled fondly towards the dining hall, where a joyful ruckus could be heard from where they were. No doubt made by the beloved students who, beyond all reason and doubt, showed up to keep a promise they made to, someone who, for all they knew, might have already been dead.

The younger boy contemplated the Professor’s words, his head spinning with their meaning.

Everyone Cyril had ever loved and cared for had disappeared. He had been alone for so long. Now that he finally found people he cared about again, he didn’t want to let them go.

And if he loosened his grip, he was sure he’d lose them forever.

He looked at the Professor in the eyes, who was sitting in front of him patiently, a gentle smile on their face. 

Maybe, there was a chance, they were tethered by something more than just his grip.

“Ya swear, Professor?” Cyril asked. “You’re telling the truth?”

Byleth nodded seriously.

“Jeralt…” The Professor started, their face turning solemn before pressing on. “He’s gone. But also, he’s still here. I feel it in the way I swing my sword, or when I give commands to my battalions. It’s like I have a guide, helping me do all these things I have to do everyday.”

Cyril nodded at their words. He looked down at his hands and wondered if there were still parts of his parents in him.

Or was it that he carried with him not his parents, but Byleth and the others instead?

Was it both? Or... were they the same?

“The trust we’ve formed with Rhea trumps any separation we are experiencing right now. I’m sure she knows this," Byleth continued. " And this goes for all of our connections with each other. No matter where we go, Cyril. You will always have us with you.”

The younger boy looked up and gave the Professor a small smile. It was all he can muster at the moment because suddenly he became very aware of how tired he was.

“I-I got it, Professor,” Cyril stuttered out. “I think.”

“Good,” Byleth said, satisfied. They stood up, scooping up their empty plates and teacups. “So will you finally follow the schedule I’ve made you?”

The ache around Cyril’s shoulders and his sore back groaned their agreement for him.


	5. Parent III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyril is injured and Seteth's fatherly instincts take over.
> 
> This chapter is set post-war and Cyril is the house leader of the Golden Deer, in the same setting as my other fic Still Learning. You don't have to read that to understand this, but it will provide a lot of context into what Cyril's life as a student at the Officers Academy is like.

Three years after the war, Fodlan was at peace. You could still find the occasional bandit raid and territory dispute now and again, remnants of the instability caused by a five-year war. The Officers Academy, now open to anyone regardless of status, played their part in subduing the violent and keeping the peace. For Cyril, a veteran of two wars, this wasn’t something difficult to deal with. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been.

Cyril stared at the ceiling of the infirmary as he lay on one of the beds as his wounds were tended to. He sighed. Seteth was going to _kill_ him. 

“There, you’re all done,” Manuela said with a proud smile, lightly patting his cheek. Cyril moved to sit up, but Manuela stopped him with a tight grip on his shoulder. “Uh-uh, you’re confined to this bed for the next three days, Cyril. I’m ordering you to rest and I don’t want to hear anything related to _you_ and _work_ in that time.”

“I have dinner with Seteth tonight,” Cyril protested with a weak voice

“Ah yes, your weekly dinners! Well, I’m sure he’ll understand once you explain—”

“You can’t tell him,” Cyril shook his head. Although, with how painful it was to move any part of his body, he might’ve actually just imagined the shaking.

“Oh Cyril, I’m positive he already knows.”

Cyril groaned and sunk deeper down on to the soft pillow behind his head. Or, at least he tried to. There was a sharp pain behind his head that was sensitive to too much contact. That came from the sword hilt that hit him when he was trying to pull his axe out of the ground. He couldn’t dwell on that, however, because different pain points around his body were all fighting for his attention. A puncture wound on his thigh where an arrow struck him. Broken toes and a broken ankle from when he landed wrong after an explosion. An ache at his side from what was previously a dislocated shoulder. Black and blue bruises all over his body. By far the nastiest injury was a deep gash that stretched across his ribs from a particularly ugly axe-wielder. He could barely move.

Well, he supposed, it’s not like could hide that he was hurt.

Right on cue, the infirmary door burst open and Seteth practically ran to Cyril’s side. 

“Cyril, what were you thinking?!” Seteth said, frantic. He leaned over the boy who was trying his best to disappear into the sheets. 

“Relax, Seteth, I’ve patched him up all nice, see?” Manuela tried to say.

“Thank you,” Seteth said curtly, not taking his eyes away from Cyril’s broken body.

“O-kay, I’m going to step out, get some fresh air,” Manuel said quickly before disappearing from the room.

Seteth said nothing to her, focused only on the boy on the bed. “Well, Cyril?”

Cyril could not look at the older man in the eyes. He wasn’t scared of Seteth, he hadn’t been for a really long time now, but the ferocious look his eyes would make any person squirm.

“Uh, well, this town near Remire Village was having trouble with this group of bandits. They took over and were treating everyone real badly.”

“Yes, you and the rest of the Golden Deer were sent to suppress them,” Seteth frowned. “This is a basic exercise for you. You’ve faced far worse.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Cyril said, sheepish. “But these guys are all professionals and… the Deer… well, none of them are.”

Seteth’s mouth set in a firm line, but he said nothing.

Cyril sighed. “I told everyone where to go and what places to take. But I guess, some of them got a little overexcited and set off on their own. They got ambushed.” Cyril closed his eyes and gulped, trying to control the rush of panic that filled him upon remembering the exact moment he found his classmates surrounded.

“I jumped in,” Cyril continued, even if he didn’t really want to. “Some of the Knights were nearby, but they were assigned to help evacuate instead of fight, so I asked the Deer to ask them to help. They managed to go, but then there was an explosion, from a gambit, I think… That really messed me up.

“Before I knew it, I was being overpowered. Next thing I remember was Alois peeling a guy off of me and there was an axe… where it shouldn’t be.” Cyril opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling again. He caught Seteth’s face staring hard at the blood-soaked gauze on his ribs, lines etched between his eyebrows as he furrowed them.

“I know I didn’t make the best decisions,” Cyril mumbled. “But I saw them, and they looked so scared! And they looked so small compared to the bandits and… and…I—I wanted to…” He trailed off.

“You wanted to protect them,” Seteth supplied helpfully. He took a deep breath and sat down at the edge of the bed, turning to face Cyril. “You did well.”

“Uh… what?”

“While I may not agree with your… methods… it is admirable that you have that protective instinct towards your classmates.” Seteth said, his face softening at his looked at Cyril in the eyes. “I understand very well what you felt in that moment,” 

Seteth might as well have become a dragon with the way Cyril was staring at him.

“Is it so surprising that I praise how you have performed today?” Seteth said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the small smile he gave.

“Well, I gotta admit, I was expecting you to be angrier.”

“Yes, well, nearly getting yourself killed with your antics is certainly something we must discuss.” Seteth’s eyes hardened for a moment, but relaxed again after a while. “Although we can save that for another day, when you are not in so much pain.”

“Thanks,” Cyril muttered, but smiled at Seteth.

The pair sat in silence for a while before Seteth spoke up.

“Cyril… That instinct of yours to protect the people you care about? I am all too familiar with it,” Seteth said. “It is precisely what I was feeling when I burst in here. I’m afraid that in my worried and panicked state, I wrongfully scared both you and Manuela. I apologise.”

“Oh…” Cyril said, unsure of what to say. “Uh, that’s okay Seteth. I can’t speak for Manuela but I wasn’t scared. Although, ya don’t have to stress yourself over me that much, ya don’t have to worry about me.”

“I will apologise to Manuela later on,” Seteth nodded. “But I must disagree with the rest of what you said. I _will_ worry about you, Cyril. I _am_ worried.

“Shamir entrusted your care to me before she left, and I want to do right by her, and by you as well.”

It’s almost been a year since Shamir left with Catherine to travel all over Fodlan. 

Shamir almost decided to stay in the monastery for him. Cyril almost asked her to stay. But he saw the way she and Catherine talked excitedly about travelling together, and he saw how much it would make them happy, and the way they looked at each other, and how much they wanted to spend time together, just the two of them.

So he pushed her to go, telling her he would be with her in spirit.

Shamir left with the promise of letters and permission to use her last name where his was always blank before.

Apparently, she also left the same care she used to give him, only she left it with Seteth.

“That was real nice of her,” Cyril said, smiling fondly at the thought of Shamir.

“It was,” Seteth nodded. “But that’s not my only motivation, of course.”

“Huh?”

“I must admit… I feel as though the overprotective instinct I had with Flayn has also rubbed off on the way I treat you, Cyril.”

Cyril wasn’t the only one who was apart from someone dear to him.

Shortly after the war, Flayn left. She left a few of them cheerful letters of gratitude, but no indication as to where she was going. Seteth knew where she had gone, but the only thing he told them was that she was safe and that she was finally being independent, exactly as she wanted. No one wanted to press him for more details, because as much as he tried to make it seem like he was still put together, everyone could see the deep sadness he held at the loss of his dear sister.

“I’m still sorry she left, Seteth,” Cyril said. And he meant it. After all he and Flayn had gone through, especially during the five years they spent together on the road after Byleth’s disappearance, he was sad she had left him only a letter and not an actual goodbye.

He’ll have to tell her when she comes back. And he was confident she will. There was no way Seteth was just going to let her leave his life like that.

“But,” Cyril continued. “I don’t think Flayn will like it if ya replace her with me. When she comes back, she’s gonna get real mad at ya. And ya know how scary she is when she gets mad.” He chuckled at the thought.

He expected Seteth to laugh along with him, or maybe even mention when Flayn would come back. Instead, Cyril was met with a very confused Seteth.

“What do you mean, Cyril?”

Cyril straightened up. Or at least he tried to; in the end he could only fix his expression.

“Oh, uh, the instinct thing ya mentioned. Ya can’t just transfer your care for Flayn onto me.”

“Transfer? Excuse me? I…” Seteth sounded seriously perplexed. Suddenly realisation dawned on his face. “Do you think I care about you only as a replacement for Flayn?”

Cyril shrugged.

“Even in her absence, I will not stop caring for Flayn. At the same time, my care for you, Cyril, had begun growing far before she left,” Seteth said, a gentle smile growing on his face. “I can assure you, I am perfectly capable of caring for two people at once.”

Cyril blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Seteth nodded. “I had been watching over your growth, you know. I remember when you were fourteen and could barely lift an axe. Now you’re teaching the others the best way to swing them.”

Cyril’s cheeks reddened a little at the praise.

“And,” Seteth continued. “I cannot count the number of times you’ve aided me in battle, and how valuable it is to have you and your wyvern beside me.”

Cyril could feel the heat spread out all over his body. He thought it was the fond way Seteth was looking at him, making him feel so comfortable.

“I also see how you look at your fair-haired friend. With all the proposals being offered as of late, I would not be surprised if it would not be long until I would have to attend _your_ wedding—”

“Okay!” Cyril burst in. He could _feel_ his entire face turn as bright as a tomato. “Okay, Seteth, I get ya.” Seteth kept the gentle smile on his face.

“Just let me say one more thing, Cyril. You are aware that you, me, and the Archbishop are all incredibly busy people. The fact that we set time aside to spend time with each other, even if it is just over dinner, weekly and without fail… please know that that is time I treasure greatly.

“Being without Flayn is incredibly difficult…” Seteth said, trailing off slightly and looking somewhere distant. But almost immediately, he snapped back to Cyril and smiled again. “But when we are all together, I feel as if my sadness alleviates somewhat.”

Seteth reached out and placed a hand on the top of Cyril’s head. It was a comforting gesture. Claude did it all the time, but he always patted him and was always a bit too enthusiastic for Cyril’s comfort. Mercedes did it whenever she read beside Cyril at the library when she thought he was asleep. Shamir and Byleth both did it after hard-fought battles, no matter if he did well or not. It was a gesture of love, he knew. It said, I’m glad you’re here.

“Whenever I am with you, it is the same feeling I have when I am with Flayn, and I care about you the same way I care for her. And that is something that is very precious to me.”

Cyril didn’t know what to say. He knew, he _knew_ he wasn’t Seteth’s kid, but in the stillness of the empty infirmary and the comfort of Seteth’s gentle smile and comforting hand, he left himself bask in the warmth of Seteth’s care for a few moments.

\- - -

“Seteth?”

“Hm?”

Cyril had just woken up from a long nap, exhausted from the day’s events and the overly enthusiastic visit his Golden Deer classmates paid him after he was cleared stable enough for them.

Seteth sat on a chair beside his bed, keeping watch over him while also reviewing some paperwork he brought over from his office. He hadn’t looked up when he answered Cyril.

The sun had almost completely set that day, and they were due to meet with the Archbishop for their weekly dinner soon.

“I’m sorry I can’t make it to dinner.”

Seteth raised his head to look at the boy.

“What are you talking about? The Archbishop has already volunteered to bring all of our meals here.”


	6. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ashe and Lysithea, Cyril finally realised a fundamental truth.
> 
> This chapter is set post-war and Cyril is the house leader of the Golden Deer, in the same setting as my other fic Still Learning. You don't have to read that to understand this, but it will provide a lot of context into what Cyril's life as a student at the Officers Academy is like. I also reference the Ashe and Lysithea vignettes from that fic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see the pairings as either romantic or platonic.
> 
> I imagine them as romantic, both of them, because Cyril can hold both Ashe and Lysithea's hands with his!

Cyril didn’t like studying in his room. The dormitory he was placed in after he was officially enrolled in the Officers Academy was the first time in his 23 years of living that’s he’s had his own space. Before, he’s had to share room with family, then soldiers, fellow orphans, other monastery servants, and the knights of Seiros. Sure, during the war, he sometimes claimed the empty quarters of faculty and students who didn’t come back to Garreg Mach monastery, but they were never _his_. So when he finally got to say that this particular room was occupied by him, he was quick to turn it into his own personal oasis.

His room was a place of rest, relaxation, peace, and quiet. As the House Leader of the unruly new batch of Golden Deer, those four weren’t things he got very often.

So, did he think that his room was too comforting for him to accomplish any studying? Absolutely.

But Ashe and Lysithea insisted, and he could never refuse those two.

“I have so much reading to do, for my crest research _and_ for the reworking of Ordelia’s taxation plan,” Lysithea had said over lunch one day. “And I could scarcely hear myself think because Professor Manuela and Professor Hanneman were bickering again!” 

“Sounds awful,” Ashe chuckled. “And familiar. That’s exactly how it feels to be in a roundtable discussion with Margrave Gautier and Count Gloucester. No wonder Felix can’t wait for Sylvain and Lorenz to inherit their titles.”

“And do ya have a lot of things to do for Gaspard too, Ashe?” Cyril asked.

“Yes,” Ashe nodded, but a faint blush appeared on his cheeks. “But if I’m honest, I want to get it done quickly so I have time to read the book about Loog you found for me, Cyril.”

“Cyril, could we do this paperwork in your room?” Lysithea asked, her nose crinkling. “The library’s sure to be full, and some of your classmate can be noisier than Caspar and Raphael _combined._ ”

“Mmm,” Ashe hummed in agreement. “It would be nice to have the space to lie down, stretch our legs, and rest, too.”

“You can do that in the library though,” Cyril pointed out, remembering all the nice naps he’s had there.

Ashe and Lysithea both looked at him with mildly horrified looks. 

“People _study_ there,” Lysithea exclaimed.

“That’s against the rules,” Ashe mumbled.

“Or not… Fine” Cyril said, rolling his eyes, as his two friends both grinned at them.

Cyril didn’t like studying in his room, but that’s exactly what he was doing, all because that’s what Ashe and Lysithea wanted to do and he wanted to spend more time with them. He didn’t see the two of them very often, but every time they were together, they tried to make the most of each other’s company.

Ashe recently transitioned from being a knight for King Dimitri to being appointed the new head of House Gaspard. The new lord had been going back and forth between his home and Fhirdiad to try to gather resources and support to help his territory thrive again. That left very little time for stops at Garreg Mach, but on the occasion he’s had to come on official business, he always tries to stay a few more days longer than necessary.

Lysithea’s duties to helping the people of Ordelia, as well as her health, prevented her from travelling too often. She wasn’t frail or anything of the sort yet, but Cyril could tell that as the moons passed, she was getting less and less energetic. She was invited to stay in Garreg Mach as Hanneman continued his research into her crests, but she wanted to help Ordelia first. Whenever she did come around though, her free time was most often spent with her friends. 

Cyril wasn’t just sitting idly by, either. He was the House Leader for the Golden Deer, helping with the research on Lysithea’s crests, taking care of his classmates, keeping up with constant correspondence with Claude, Mercie, Shamir, and all his old friends, giving advice on how to best take care of the monastery to the new groundskeepers (however unwarranted it may be)…. He was busy, too.

Any chance he could get to spend time with the two of them, he would take.

Cyril lay on his back near the cabinets at the end of the room, holding his notes on battalion tactics above him. He made these notes himself, but with how comfortable he was, everything blurred together until he might as well have been reading a whole other language. Groaning, he set down his papers and turned on his side to face his friends.

Cyril watched as Ashe furrowed his brows at some papers he was holding on his lap. The new lord sat horizontally on the bed, his back leaning on the wall and his feet hanging over the edge. Various papers were scattered around him as he tried to make sense of the various treaties and partnerships that Gaspard had formed over the years. Every know and then, he would turn back and forth between the paper on his lap and the papers beside him and the creases on his forehead deepened along with the frustrated look on his face.

Once, over dinner during one of his visits, a few moons into Officers Academy’s school year, Ashe mentioned to Cyril that Gaspard’s records were a mess. 

“After Lonato died,” Ashe had said. “The retainers tried their best to keep things afloat, but then House Rowe and the Empire came, and… well… at that point they were doing anything just trying to survive.”

“And they didn’t tell ya any of this?” Cyril asked. Ashe shook his head.

“They didn’t want me involved because they knew I wanted to become a knight,” he replied. “That’s why they sent me over to aid House Rowe instead. They thought I’d like that better than dealing with politics.”

“And do ya?” 

There was silence as Ashe pondered on the question. Even though the subject was heavy, the atmosphere wasn’t. Ashe was used to Cyril’s straightforward statements, and Cyril really liked Ashe’ earnest honesty. This kind of heart-to-heart wasn’t unusual for the two of them. In fact, it was comfortable.

“I guess not,” Ashe replied slowly. “But… I can’t just leave Gaspard as it is. I want to help people, and isn’t that what being a knight is all about?”

“Yeah,” Cyril agreed. “And you’ll be able to do that more in Gaspard than in Fhirdiad?”

“I think so,” Ashe nodded, resolute. “It’s not like there are no knights in Gaspard. I’m trying to re-establish the order there, after they kind of faded away during the war.”

“Huh?” Cyril asked, looking at Ashe blankly. “I’d think there would be an increase of knights during a war than a decrease?”

“You would think,” Ashe hummed. “But as it went on, there were less and less squires, and people seemed to not want to join the order of knights anymore.”

Cyril felt the sadness emanating from his friend. It couldn’t be easy for someone like Ashe to see knighthood being turned down by his people and Cyril felt for him. Cyril pondered on what his friend had been saying. “Ashe, what do knights do in Gaspard?”

“Everything the lord needed I guess?” Ashe shrugged. “They fought battles, defended towns, inspected visitors and their wares, collected the taxes—”

“Aha!”

Ashe blinked. “Cyril?”

“Ya mean to say, the very people who the townsfolk see kill their enemies are the same ones that come and take their money?” 

Ashe looked at Cyril, confusion on his face.

“I get why ya wouldn’t see it because ya think knights are great and all,” Cyril continued. “But if I was a civilian, and powerful warriors were knocking on my door to take my money, I’d be real intimidated too.”

“Oh,” Ashe said, surprised. “I-I’ve never thought of it that way. You mean to say… it’s in the way they portray themselves?”

“Ya could say that,” Cyril shrugged. "Although, I think it's more about how you don't have to send the knights to do everything, 'cuz you can't do anything if they're really scary."

Then, in a gentler voice, he said, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think they hate the knights, Ashe. I think people are just misunderstanding them. They just have to meet you and I bet they’re going to regret ever thinking knights were anything but good and kind.”

Ashe turned to Cyril and placed his freckly hand over his friend’s and squeezed. “Thank you, Cyril. You have been incredibly helpful. You always are… I hope you understand how valuable you are to me…” His face softened. “Do you already know what you’re going to do once you graduate from the Officers Academy?”

Cyril smiled, amused. “That’s sudden. Why are ya asking?”

“You should come to Gaspard. Stay with me,” Ashe blurted out. A faint tinge of red appeared on his pale face. “Be my advisor, I mean. I could use your wisdom.” Ashe flashed him a brilliant smile.

Cyril’s eyes widened in mock surprise, attempting to fight the smirk on his face. “Are ya _offering me a job_?”

At that, Ashe let out a large belly laugh. “It’s more than that, Cyril!” Ashe was still kind of laughing, mirth forming on his eyes. “I mean, officially, you would be my advisor, yes. But, more than that, I just want you to be by my side. I _value_ you.”

Cyril smiled and shifted so he could squeeze Ashe’s hand.

“But we can discuss the specifics later,” Ashe continued. “Would you like to go for a drink?”

“Are ya sure? Don’t ya usually have early morning meetings whenever you visit?” Cyril asked.

“Not tomorrow,” Ashe replied, standing up. “Besides… I feel light today. I think we could go out and celebrate. I feel like tonight marks the start of something new and important.” Ashe smiled down at Cyril and offered an hand to the boy. “Coming?”

Now it was Cyril whose face flushed red. There was a warmth in his heart and he nodded, taking Ashe’s hand and going out with him towards the tavern.

Cyril was still contemplating on Ashe’s offer to him that night because he was still apprehensive about leaving the monastery. He would miss Byleth, Seteth, and Claude’s frequent and often unannounced visits. And Garreg Mach itself, as a physical place, has been his home for years. The thought of not seeing the sun rise above the Cathedral every morning filled him with a deep sense of mourning.

But then there was Ashe. Ashe, who was sweet and brave and full of life. Cyril couldn’t imagine a better person to be by his side if he ever decided to leave the monastery.

For now, however, he was perfectly content where he was. He had fallen into a routine ever since starting the Officers Academy school year. It was a sense of normalcy and comfort he had never experienced before.

The “class” part of his routine wasn’t exactly exciting. He’d practically gone through it before, and he knew most of what was being taught anyway. But it was nice to be able to go and be in an _actual uniform_ this time around, feeling like he belonged instead of sticking out.

The best part was without a doubt that fact that he was around people. Spending time with Byleth and Seteth, receiving letters from Shamir and his friends, even getting to know his Golden Deer classmates better (he was glad they were finally talking to him normally, instead of a mythical creature like at first). Those were the moments he cherished the most.

The only thing that would come close to that would be his research with Hanneman. Being the research assistant of the Father of Crestology himself was the _last_ thing Cyril expected he would be doing with his life.

However, he was only able to do that because Lysithea spent so many hours teaching him how to read, so the fact that he took up this position _for_ her was only fitting, he supposed.

Cyril spent most of his nights helping Hanneman with his research. It wasn’t too heavy or difficult, it was just tedious. He was doing things such as looking up passages from books outside of Hanneman’s collection and noting it down word for word to be used as reference, or making copies of Hanneman’s own notes to be sent out to colleagues for them to corroborate and test. It should have been relatively easy if it weren’t for the sheer volume of it.

Still, it was necessary. And it paid off. After a few moons, Hanneman had said there was a breakthrough and called for Lysithea to come to Garreg Mach because her physical presence was needed to test the process of crest removal. In his excitement, he credited Cyril for pointing out an inconsistency that lead to breakthrough to happen.

Something Cyril specifically asked Hanneman not to do. Because despite working on the crest research for months and having constant correspondence with the mage, Cyril still has not told Lysithea he knew about her crests.

One week later, he received a very annoyed letter from her in response. One moon later, she had finally arrived.

It was nighttime. They were on the bridge coming from the cathedral. Lysithea wasn’t particularly devout, and Cyril wasn’t at all, but they both felt the need to stop by after hearing what the mage was to go through the following morning.

Hanneman had explained over dinner that the next step to the research would be an actual attempt at the procedure. It involved a combination of advanced faith and reason techniques that soared over Cyril’s head but Lysithea grimly nodded to. Cyril got the gist, though. He knew it would be taxing for everyone, most of all Lysithea. He knew Byleth, Manuela, Lindhardt, and Marianne were called in to serve as backup. He knew it was risky because one misstep could kill someone involved. At that, Lysithea blanched and grabbed Cyril’s hand under the table.

Now, walking from the cathedral, Lysithea had turned to clutching hard on to Cyril’s arm.

“You never told me,” Lysithea said, coming to a stop at the middle of the bridge. Cyril halted and turned to look at her. “I mean that you knew about my crests.”

“I’m sorry,” Cyril said sheepishly, but Lysithea only shook her head. “The Professor… uh, Archbishop, was in Hanneman’s office, and I heard your name and….”

Lysithea nodded but didn’t say anything.

“They were talking about how… you’d given up,” Cyril said. “And how worried they were about you. And I, uh, kinda barged in and demanded to know what was happening.”

Lysithea let go of Cyril’s arm in order to stifle a giggle. “Why does that sound _so_ like you Cyril?”

“Hey!” Cyril pouted. “Ya know I say what’s on my mind.”

“I do,” Lysithea smiled.

“Anyway,” Cyril huffed. “They told me ‘cause they saw I was worried about you… I _am_ worried about you, Lysithea.”

“I know,” Lysithea said softly. She turned out and walked over to the edge of the balcony, over at the large ethereal branches surrounding the Goddess Tower. “Actually, by then I had truly given up.”

Cyril stepped over and silently stood beside her.

“I saw no end in sight. I was convinced my fate was sealed and I was doomed to live a short life,” the mage continued. “The war had been over for a couple of years at that point, and all I wanted to do was to make sure my parents were taken care of.

“I… I thought… it was better to live a peaceful life, than to miserably look for a cure.”

“Lysithea…” Cyril said quietly.

“No, no,” Lysithea interjected. “I know. I still think that’s true in some cases, but it wasn’t in mine. I wasn’t exactly happy taking care of Ordelia’s paperwork and politics. And I hadn’t really given up on researching crests. I needed something fun to stimulate my brain in between organising what was left of Ordelia’s resources.”

Cyril snorted. “Yes, fun…”

“Oh, honestly, Cyril,” Lysithea rolled her eyes. “You’ve been a crest researcher for five moons, and you still don’t enjoy it?”

Cyril hummed. “I enjoy the benefits it gives,” he said honestly.

“I suppose,” Lysithea said, and then her face softened. “I do, too.”

The pair shot each other a smile before looking out at the view again.

“I think I had just lost hope at that point,” Lysithea continued. “But do you know what brought it back?”

“What?”

“You,” Lysithea turned to smile at Cyril. “The fact that you were involved, gave me great comfort. I thought, if you were still hopeful, why couldn’t I be?”

“Lysithea…” Cyril turned to her as well, “I will always hope that you will long and happily.”

“Don't you mean _bappily_?” Lysithea giggled as Cyril rolled his eyes. “I hope the same for you, too.”

They looked into each other’s eyes in silence until Lysithea moved to speak.

“To be honest, I’m a little scared for the procedure,” she admitted. “Will you… be there tomorrow?”

“ ‘Course!” Cyril nodded immediately. “I’ll be there as much as I can, you’ll be seeing me before they put you to sleep and right after you wake up.”

“With some cake?”

“And some Crescent-Moon tea, and a peach sorbet.”

Cyril watched as Lysithea worked. She and everyone else involved had survived the procedure, but it had failed to remove Lysithea’s crests. However, Hanneman said that it had at least produced excellent data that they would use to study more into it, and that they would be ready to try again in a few moons time. She was laying on her front on the floor, propped up on her elbows as she read from a thick ancient tome she had borrowed from Abyss. Her right hand held a quill as she would scratch notes on an equally heavy pad of paper next to her. Her focus was unwavering, just as it had always been. She may have been weaker physically, but she had so much more fire in her eyes now.

It may have been strange to get involved in crest research of all things, but it was all worth it to have Lysithea right there, in his room, reading and scribbling furiously.

Cyril started to feel a warmth spread all over his body, wrapping around him a comforting blanket, and it didn’t take long for him to accept its comforting embrace.

\- - -

It turns out that warmth wasn’t just a feeling, but an actual blanket Cyril was tucked into. It took a while for him to register that he was on his bed and that Ashe and Lysithea has both transferred to the floor next to him.

He had fallen asleep, and now he woke up to the sound of quiet laughing beside him.

They both were apparently on a break, the paperwork they had been working on brushed aside and replaced with an assortment of sweets and an open copy of the book about Loog Cyril found. The unlikely pair were trying to keep their voices down as Ashe was animatedly telling Lysithea a story Caspar and Lindhardt had written to him about their adventure, with the mage failing to stifle her laughter.

It was… perfect.

Having the three of them right there was all Cyril wanted. Even earlier, in the silence, they didn’t have to speak, they didn’t have to do anything. The warmth of that contentment spread all over Cyril once again and this time he felt it reach his eyes, prickling it with tears. They were together, living peacefully, sharing meals, laughing. Cyril had fallen asleep on a cold floor and had woken up bundled in warmth. He was being taken care of by people he had valued the most.

Here he was, in a space he loved and felt a great comfort in. And it was filled with people he loved. And who loved him back. Having the three of them all together there just completed the picture, and Cyril was filled with an overwhelming sense of peace.

“Cyril, are you okay?!”

Tears were now falling as Cyril sat up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Ashe and Lysithea approached him, the former placing a hand behind his head, and the latter rubbing small circles on his back.

Cyril couldn’t speak; he cried. For the family he lost. For Claude taking care of him. For Mercie soothing his troubles. For Shamir and Byleth and Seteth always looking out for him and making sure he felt normal, and accepted, and valued. For Ashe and Lysithea, giving him the purpose and motivation be excited for the present and for the future.

For all of them, for making him feel _loved_. 

For the things that were never said but were always there: the fact that he did lose his family, but that he also gained a new one, that he’s had one for a while now when they’re together and even when they’re apart. 

That he loves them all, so so much.

“Cyril…”

“I’m fine,” Cyril finally managed to reply, smiling at nothing in particular, but also at absolutely _everything_ he realised. “Everything is great.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's completed!! 
> 
> This was also supposed to be a oneshot but each vignette got a little long.
> 
> I love my underrated boy and all the rarepairs (romantic and platonic) that come along with him, and all the unique themes he brings that we can still explore.
> 
> I know it's quiet lengthy, so if you've made it here, thank you for reading until the end!!!!


End file.
